We will by Baumbach's go, no?"

Ruefully I gazed at the grimy cuffs of my blouse, and
felt of my dishevelled hair. "Oh, I'm afraid I can't go.
I look so mussy. Haven't had time to brush up."

"Brush up!" scoffed Blackie, "the only thing
about you that will need brushin' up is your German. I
was goin' t' warn you to rumple up your hair a little so
you wouldn't feel overdressed w'en you got there. Come
on, girl."

And so I came. And oh, I'm so glad I came!

I must have passed it a dozen times without once
noticing it--just a dingy little black shop nestling
between two taller buildings, almost within the shadow of
the city hall. Over the sidewalk swung a shabby black
sign with gilt letters that spelled, "Franz Baumbach."

Blackie waved an introductory hand in the direction
of the sign. "There he is. That's all you'll ever see
of him."

"Dead? " asked I, regretfully, as we entered the
narrow doorway.

"No; down in the basement baking Kaffeekuchen."

Two tiny show-windows faced the street--such queer,